Turn Out The Lights
by Maymer
Summary: Funny. I’ve never really looked at your eyes before.


Funny. I've never really looked at your eyes before. I'd always thought they'd be red, like Vincent's. Or green…deep, clear, green….cat's eyes, quick and sharp and always alert. I'd never thought someone as fiery as you could have predominantly grey eyes, but I spent the last few years thinking I was an ex-SOLDIER called Zack, so perhaps I shouldn't comment.

I can see pain in your eyes, and anger. I know Rude's death affected you. I know, with all your heart and soul, you loved him. I know you watched the bullet enter his heart, watched him crumple, watched him die…helpless. I know because three years ago I watched the one thing I loved flicker out of existence. Before that, I watched my best friend die for me, with such a profound effect that I forgot who I was. And that's why I know that behind your tough façade, you're dying inside, and behind the rage and behind the grief in your eyes, you're lost and you're scared, and you're alone.

Perhaps that's why I love you. I recognise the agony and I want to spare you from becoming the feeble wreck of a man that I became - no emotions, no morals, just an empty husk that somehow clings to life. Perhaps misery just attracts company and I needed someone to down their sorrows with me each night. Maybe I've started to heal, to grow out of my shell and fragile soul, but I doubt it somehow. I'm broken for good.

I don't need pity. I don't need motivational speeches about my worth. I don't need lectures about responsibility. I don't even need you to love me. I'm surprised that I'm still capable of feeling, so that's enough for me….I just need to be able to love.

And you, what do you need?

Love maybe…But I think more than anything, you need to forget, even if only for a while. You need something…_someone_…to block out Rude, to stop you thinking, stop you feeling, stop you crying. You need someone to hold you at night and suppress the memories. You know you'd feel guilty for forgetting him the next morning, but for a few moments of blissful blankness, I don't think you care.

So I know you won't resist when I ask you to fuck me.

And you didn't.

Maybe, for a second, you thought I was just taking advantage of you, but I'm not and I hope you see that. I'm a broken man struggling to feel, trying to help another who needs to belong.

You always were emotional, especially compared to Rude. I now see he was your rock, you source of strength. Without him you don't know what to do, so you accept: hoping, needing me to hold you close and lend you power, tell you everything's going to be alright. We both know tomorrow will be hard…but you need me tonight, as much you hate to admit it.

You two were Yin and Yang. The perfect equilibrium.

I pass you a bottle of vodka. The finest. You take it, and knock it back, and we share a weak smile. Alcohol numbs the pain, I've learnt from experience.

Hands find each other. Fingers lock.

Hearts sink.

We find ourselves in a grimy bedroom. On my life I can't recall the time between taking your hand and opening this door. You enter, but I linger in the doorway. I was so confident, but now…now I don't know what to do.

Should I ask you what you like? That would mean doing what Rude did, and then you might think I was trying to replace him, or just bring back the pain I was trying to make you forget.

Or maybe, you can pretend I'm him if I did that…Lose yourself in sweet memories…

You turn, see me hesitating. Again, a weak smile that doesn't reach your eyes. We're both thinking maybe this isn't a great idea. You hand me back the vodka, significantly emptier than before.

You only spoke once that night, and it was just then.

You said "just turn out the lights."

------

Drunken haze fades, I wake in the dirty sheets of a dingy room, your painfully thin body curled beside me. I can see where bruises are forming and thin cuts where fingers raked your skin. I know you're sore, and you'll carry tokens of last night's exchange for some time. And I know I will too, knowing without needing to move, or look away from your back, because whatever I did to you, you did to me. More so. Physical pain is such a sweet release from emotional agony, and accompanying the pain is the wonderful feeling of _control_ - being able to just _hurt_ something brings its own ecstasy. And your torture is still fresh. You loved it that even through your helplessness and weakness, you could do whatever you wanted with me.

I lay still for a time, relishing in the alcohol-induced migraine coursing around my head. I think I love hangovers more than the drink itself. Nothing is as effective at blocking thought.

I sit up slowly, so as not to wake you, and make for the nearest article of clothing. I frankly don't care if it's yours or mine, but I doubt that anything of yours will fit me. After retrieving and donning enough to face the world, I walk towards the door.

You'd rather wake alone, pretend the evidence on your skin and in your stiff muscles is lying, or that it was self inflicted. But you'll know and I'll know that it was me.

However, as I open the door, I know you're awake. Perhaps you were awake long before me, just staring at the grey, bland concrete wall by your head, perhaps my staggering attempts to find my things woke you, it doesn't matter. You don't move, or show any signs of consciousness, and I don't look back. Neither acknowledges the other's existence. Nothing is to be achieved by trying to impose ourselves on the other's mind.

I'm still me and you're still you. You're a Turk, and I'm…I'm….

_(My god that's depressing. Was a mercenary. Saved the world (twice). Became a delivery boy. What a promotion.)_

I'm me. And our position is the same as ever. Today you might be ordered to kill me, and you wouldn't refuse, and I don't care. Today you might be my enemy, tomorrow, you might be my informant. That's how life is.

Like love, grief knows no bounds. And so we'll ignore each other until it becomes too much, and then we'll meet for a night of physical pleasure and a morning of physical pain. And maybe, just maybe we'll survive.

I think I know now why your eyes are such a bland grey.

They were prepared for the day when your soul died.


End file.
